Keeping my mind on a peaceful place that Matt loved as I March myself determinedly through the routine of my day.
The sixth anniversary of Matt’s death is today, February 24. More frigid weather is predicted, appropriate for this dark day. Bill says “Six years is a long time.” But, I think, “Not to me.” I remember the events surrounding his death in great detail. But, instead of recognizing the day of Matt’s accident, as we did for several years, we plan to go about our usual activities hoping the mundane and the everyday will keep us sharply pinned to the present and its distractions and necessities.
Bill will exercise and go to meetings.
I will walk with my corgi, Skye, on the frozen shore of Lake Michigan. I will attend my usual early morning spin class and sing along under my breath to one of the country western songs the instructor plays nearly every class—“When you’re goin’ through hell, keep on goin’. Don’t look back…” Or he may play another of his favorites, “I will wait, I will wait for you.” The tune and lyrics will keep me going. I will work in my studio on some new prints, cheered by the sunny disposition of my studio partner. I will attend a meeting in the late afternoon. I will cut up things for dinner, then cook, then eat. I will read a book. Then, I will go to bed and this day will pass. But I begin to feel swirls of shakiness.
